Welcome to Week 3 of AWOL – Art Angel Writers OnLine

This week’s exercise was titled ‘Titles’, all taken from photographs or paintings, (mostly Frida Kahlo). Suggested prompt: adopt a title for your writing or use some of these words within your writing.  The titles are:

‘I Belong to my Owner’.

‘Portrait of a Girl’.

‘Self Portrait with Necklace of Thorns’.

‘They Asked for Planes but were Given Straw Wings’.

‘What the Water Gave Me’.

‘The Bright Cloud’.

‘My Dress Hangs There’.

‘The False Mirror’.

`

#1 – Titles     #2 – Spirited Dress   by Helen McGinnis

#1 – Titles     

Straw wings are better than no wings 

All angels have to start at the beginning. 

straw will warm the coldest heart.

if hearts had wings they would burn like a thousand butterflies, wild and free. 

`

#2 – Spirited Dress

It was draped over the moss-covered branch tantalisingly swinging to and fro with the winds soft whispers. 

The teal coloured lace, a fine spectacle to behold. It was like exquisite fine dining on the fully-exposed retina.

Full-bodied, voluminous velvet swaying, teaching the young how to move. Sultry, strong, sure of her childbearing hips.

Many a stallion would fight to drink this spirit. 

Barefoot, with raven black hair, fearless eyes with a mouth that speaks her mind. No other could bewitch the fabric of this world.

Helen McGinnis

`

What the water gave us by Jodi Glass

What the water gave us

The soaking of flesh in hot water

cleansing the soul of outside worries,

steam unclogging worried pores

dissolving concerns, pollution and outside scum swirling,

carelessly, but separate, floating from us.

`

Smells of the ocean, clears the mind

city dwellers forget they are city dwellers.

Smells of Hawaii;

`

gentle heat, reminds of summer days

conditioner of spa days

what the water gave us was sheer magic

30 minutes of nothing but relaxation.

Jodi Glass

`

Three untitled experiments with titles by V. Rivers

Three untitled experiments with titles

Untitled #1

I belong to

a girl

with [a] necklace of thorns.

They asked for

water, [she] 

gave

[a] cloud [to]

dress

false

[thirst]

`

Untitled #2

My owner[s’] 

portrait, a self portrait with 

thorns 

they asked for.

Straw wings

gave me

the bright [idea]

to hangs

the mirror 

[opposite]

`

Untitled #3

The [dreams]

of

planes, but were given

my

[nightmares]

V. Rivers

`

Fear: A Collection by anon

Fear: A Collection

`

I. The False Mirror

`

that’s how it starts

dull and creeping.

shadows in the back of your mind.

reassuring you

while they tend the fires of doubt

“Look away

lest the Light claim your eyes!”.

the thing with shadows is

the more you

look away

the further in they close.

as flames roar

the only sound you hear

is a soothing song

of dominion.

until your world

is a vision

of black alabaster

where you can’t tell the difference

between shadow and caster.

`

II. Portrait of An Owner

`

we take the medicine

that consumes us.

leaks through the cracks

in our spine.

dripping

we make moves in the dark.

tripping

over useless pieces

of used-to-be heart.

they say

the road less travelled

doesn’t go our way.

they say

many have been led astray.

so we wait

in fear.

with bated breath

for the next hit

to keep us in place.

`

III. a bête noire

`

we were promised planes

but given straw wings

tethered to the shore.

they remind us 

we can fly

but not to aim too high

or stray

too close to the light.

that we might see

what Icarus seen.

living isn’t being

without a doubt

he would tell us

he didn’t fly high enough.

so, for the spectacle

we’ll gladly burn

alive.

belonging to none

severing ties.

that’s how endings begin

bright and sprawling.

[  anon  ]

`

Week 3 lockdown poem  by Lotty

Week 3 lockdown poem 

Three weeks, but only now does the fear set in. Every day numbers come in thick and fast; each face has family and friends going through hell. All because of a silent stalker that we cannot see, let alone smell.

`

Coronavirus, well I’ve got to hand it to you – at least with your killing spree you aren’t being biased. Rich, poor, famous, ordinary, they have all had a visit. Even our Prime Minister wasn’t quite clever enough to miss it, seeping through rapidly like your forefathers with the Plague. You show no mercy, not even to those who have a faith; and they will practically beg and yet you still choose a victim who ends up dying alone in a hospital bed, with not even a kind hand to stroke their head.

Lotty  

`

Fragments of Water. by Kathy Low

Fragments of Water.

`

                       Fragments.

`                                

                              under the surface, deceptive calm,

                              the treachery of the long forgotten.

                              A squall may engender a stirring of silt.

                              Beware of what may surface.

`

                        This.

`

                              iron clouds close down the day.

                              The air fizzles with skin crawling energy.

                              Deafening light fills my being

                              and unleashes curtains of water cascading and battering

                              and the dying bird at my feet.

`

                       There.

`

                              The pale ocean stretches to the perfect circle of the horizon

                              a thousand miles from land.

                                   And there!

                                        see….

                                            and again….

                               Who knew the truth could be so wondrous?

                               Fish are gliding, glistening, 

                                                                               flying…

`

                      ……….

`

                              hold the candle.

                              Thick silence behind his words.

                              Sweet oil on skin, soft intake of breath.

                              Attentiveness and wandering thoughts mingle 

                                                                                                  in the stale incense. 

                             A sudden cry as chill water awakens.

                                 Ego te baptizo in nomine Patris.

Kathy Low

`

new lease by Peter Marshall

new lease

portrait of a girl

not the way I see myself –

perhaps imagine

`

such sadness carried –

self portrait with necklace of

thorns show my anguish

`

upon rainy day

my dress hangs neatly wardrobed –

through historic drought

`

bright cloud glows with joy –

this cherished existence known

ever clasp to good

`

straw wings float not fly –

tumbling through thick atmosphere

towards saline bath

`

ask for planes to glide

over waves afar from pain –

sea’s swollen belly

`

now endless descent –

false mirror fast approaches

other side held back

`

cold submersion shock

water gives new lease of life –

fresh outlook to share

`

ideas resonate

I belong to my owner –

my owner is me

2020 04 05 Peter Marshall

`

Her Love For The Sea by Elisheva Katz

Her Love For The Sea

Every sunrise – Every sunset,

Came she to the deep blue sea.

Always sea was calling 

Dancing her like a seagull unto him.

`

Under crashing waves she swam deep, deep

Into the very heart of the sea that she would become,

Flying the white horses of sea’s dance.

In these times is when she was truly alive

`

Brought to her dreams of freedom.

A life beyond the darkness

Gave hope that summer would come again,

Hope she dearly held onto.

`

Sea’s changing waters were changing her

With saltwater kisses 

Drenched in emotions so strong

It was killing her slowly but quick.

`

The time when sea called her no more

Was the time she let go of all hope.

Did sea not know how she loved him so?

Danced did she no more.

`

Where she had gone to nobody knew.

Why sea’s waters had turned cold was a mystery.

Only one truth now remains

Of that time in winter’s mists.

`

Every sunrise – Every sunset,

From the heart of the deep blue sea

Her voice can still be heard singing on sea’s breeze

As the white horses dance in his waves.

Elisheva Katz

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